


Learning Sherlock

by Miles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miles/pseuds/Miles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After loosing Sherlock, John blames himself. He decides to learn what's left of Sherlock by heart and in the process he discovers something that changes his life, again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my first fic in this Fandom. I beg for forgiveness beforehand. I don't know what I'm doing. I just felt the need to write. And I did. If you happen to like it, I assure you there will be more. :)

He left the grave with his mind completely in blank. He knows where he needs to go, but that's it. He knows how to move his legs, but he doesn't feel them and barely registers the cold breeze on his cheeks.

The destination finally comes, and suddenly everything is worse than before, even if that's possible at all. 221B Baker Street. 17 steps. Home.

He could easily stick to a new routine. He had done it before. But now the reasons are even blurrier. In fact, there are no reasons.

There’s only one image in his mind. Frozen. St. Bart’s roof with  _him_  standing up there, at the very border. Alive, breathing, saying goodbye. An horizontal line with the cloudy sky as a background and a dark figure in the middle. In the image  _he_  doesn’t move.  _He_  doesn’t fall.  _He_  remains there. He pauses the mental movie in that exact moment, and doesn’t dare to play it anymore. Trying other endings is even more painful than the real one, so he just pauses it.

Days go by. He doesn’t register any of them. People came to see him. The usual ones. He ignored every one of them with the same treatment. A door in their faces. Words are so stupid. Useless. Empty.

Living is unnecessary, but dying is not an option. He needs to live so he can suffer. Because everything is his fault, and so, he needs to be punished. Living like this is an excellent punishment.

Today at Tesco’s a baby girl smiled and waved at him, but he didn’t return the gesture. He’s not allowed to smile anymore.

He’s not going to therapy either, because there’s chance that it will help him to get better and he doesn’t want that.

There’s no better without  _him_  anyway.

He decides his life is paused at the St. Bart’s roof. There’s no forward from there. Therefore the flat remains exactly the same. Every little thing stays in the exact same place  _he_  left it.

The experiments are a problem though, so every time they rot the doctor replaces them with the best replacements he has on hand.

He couldn’t care less what the butcher thinks of his strange habit of buying cow livers and brains every week. Human fingers are certainly more challenging. He won’t go to St. Bart, so he has to be more creative. He’s not proud but he manages to bribe the old gravedigger of the cemetery, and now he has a non-stop supply of recently dead fingers.

Everything remains the same, as it should be.

He wants to know everything he can possibly know about  _him_. If living with  _him_  for the rest of his life is no longer an option, he should study in detail what’s left of  _him_  . He examines every single thing. Books, notes, objects, clothes, everything. He wants to know  _him_  by heart and to appreciate every little thing of what was his fault to lose.

It takes him a year to read every book; it takes him two to decipher every note. About that time he understands  _him_  more than anyone ever will, how he thinks, how he copes with the world, how he observes, everything, and realizes something. The realization strikes him heavily. He couldn’t have possibly killed himself. Which means  _he_ ’s not dead. Not dead. Not. Dead.

Why couldn’t he realize that sooner? Why is he so stupid?

He  _un-pauses_. He plays the mental video for the first time in three years and observes a different ending. One hidden from the common eye. He puts all the pieces together and every one of them fit perfectly. It’s a masterpiece.

He’s not angry anymore. He’s not sad. He’s astonished, amazed. He’s marvelled like the first day they met.

A little betrayed, maybe, but it’s doesn’t matter what he feels anyway. What matters now, is to find  _him_.


	2. Chapter 2

He tries to think every step through.  _He must’ve had help_. That infuriating man couldn’t have fooled everyone, could  _he_?

What do you need to fake your death? Accomplices. Friends. But  _he_  hasn’t got friends. Only one,  _he_  said once. John suddenly feels bad about it. He should’ve known what was going on and helped him. He should’ve been that friend.

‘ _Focus John!_ ’ That is not how  _he_  thinks.  _He_  doesn’t feel the same way. There’s a reason why John wasn’t the chosen one to help  _him_. A logical reason, not a sentimental one.

The list isn’t long, though. There’s Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and John.

He crosses his own name off his mental list. Obviously.

Why  _he_  didn’t ask for his help? ‘ _You machine’_  he had said, but that couldn’t have been it, could it?  _He_ knew.  _He_  knew  _he_ could trust John.

Sentiment? It’s that even possible?  _He_  sent John away, because  _he_  needed time to prepare everything,  _he_  didn’t want him there.  _He_ knew the doctor would go to see Mrs. Hudson after receiving the call. How could he not go? Therefore  _he_  had already left John out of the plan long before his outburst.

But Mrs. Hudson? There’s no way that she could’ve helped  _him_  and lied to John all these years. He knows she can be very good at acting, he saw her at her best when the Americans busted in, but grief is a more challenging feeling. He should investigate more.

Now, Lestrade. Lestrade felt awful about everything. That couldn’t possibly be a fake. He used to come to see him every day till he got the message that he wasn’t wanted. The detective was truly worried about him. But did he know? John can’t tell for sure. More research is needed as well.

Molly? She certainly has the expertise needed for the job, but Mycroft has the means as well.

The army doctor doesn’t want to see any of them. All of them will want explanations, and tedious words will have to be spoken. But, then again, that’s a minor investment.

And so he starts with the closest one.

//

 

“Oh, dear. You look awful. You need to take better care of yourself, young man”, she says putting her hands on John’s shoulders, but he stiffens to the touch and gently easies out of it. John really looks tired. He has dark bags under his eyes, his eyes are red, his hair is longer and he seems to haven’t shaved in days.

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, but I’m alright”, he replies.

“You don’t look alright”, the landlady insists.

This is not going the way John wanted, and it’s precisely what he was afraid of. Empty words.

“I need to talk to you” he says straightforwardly.

“Are you back to the world, dear?” she wonders with a tiny smile.

“You could say that, yeah.”

Three years it took him. Three long years to discover the truth, to realize there’s no need for more punishment anymore. Well he still feels guilty, because he should’ve done things differently, but at least now the price is much smaller than before. If he’s right, of course.

“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Hudson genuinely wonders.

John wants to see the reaction on her face, so he asks without anaesthesia.

“The day that  _he_  died, did  _he_  ask you for a favour or something?”

The landlady is taken aback, but tries to please John anyway even though thinking about that day is very painful for her.

“No, I didn’t speak with him at all” she says sure of herself.

“What do you remember?” he insists.

“I remember that day was a long one. The workers were here. There was this man, he was very meticulous with his work. I offered him some tea after he had finished but he didn’t seem to want to leave. I spent most of the time with him until I got the call. After that, well I can’t remember much.”

She looks at nothing in particular, trying without success to prevent the tears from falling. She ends up crying tight lipped, and John can’t help to hug her in understanding.

“Why do you think  _he_  did it?” he asks after she seems better.

“ _He_  couldn’t live as a fake, I think.”

“But  _he_  wasn’t a fake and  _he_  didn’t care what other people thought about him” he argues sadly.

“I don’t know, dear. Maybe he did after all.” She answers as she stands up to prepare some tea. The old lady thought she knew  _him_  so well, but apparently that was not the case.

“Do you think  _he_ ’s somewhere watching us?”

“ _He_  didn’t believe in that non sense” she replies grabbing the cups without looking at John.

“I know but, do you?”

She turns to look at him and speaks very seriously.

“If I’d believe that, it would mean that my ex-husband is somewhere waiting for me, and that’s a terrifying thought. So no, I believe that when you died, you’re gone for good. As for…”

John nods and closes his eyes tightly; he really doesn’t want to hear  _his_  name. Mrs. Hudson nods as well.

“As for…  _him_ ” she continues “I believe  _he_  made a terrible mistake, specially leaving you like this.”

It’s John’s turn to be surprised.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, dear, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? But you need to move forward now. He’s not coming back. He’s dead, John. It’s about time you realize that.”

//

 

John needs some fresh air and tells her that. He walks the city for the first time in years. All he did so far was going to Tesco’s and back. He watches people with new eyes now. After a while he starts seeing a few yellow graffiti with the legend  _‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’_. He lets a tiny smile show up on his face. Also, for the first time.

He suddenly remembers the homeless network. They could’ve helped  _him_. That’s for sure.  And with that idea the doctor finds himself under the Waterloo Bridge looking for someone who looks familiar, someone who could tell him something new and useful, for a change.

There’s a guy who’s staring at him and without much more preamble he approaches him.

“You’re that guy, ain’t you?” the boy says.

“Who’d you say I am?” John enquires.

“You were with that detective, the fake one, who offed himself” John flinches slightly at the words of choice.

“What do you know about that?” he asks.

“What else there’s to know?” the boy says without looking at him.

John gives him 50 pounds, hoping it’ll be enough.

“I don’t know, you tell me”

“It was a long time ago, you know?” He looks at John from head to toes, and as John waits patiently, he changes his posture.

“I didn’t know him, but I knew some people who did. All of them disappeared the same day  _he_  jumped from that roof.”

“What are you saying?” John asks completely puzzled.

“I’m saying what I’m saying.”

“You’ve never seen them again, any of them?”

The guy nods.

“How many were they?”

“Four. They were always together.”

“Where did they use to hang out?”

“I’m telling you, they’re gone.”

“Can you at least tell me their names?”

“I knew Matt and Phillip. I’ve never talked with the other two, one was a woman.”

“Do you know what could’ve happened to them?”

“Look, I think I said enough, ok?” something is still off so John exhales deeply and shows him another 50 pounds, all he has.

“Please” he adds.

The guy looks around and then at John. “Either they got paid, very well paid, to disappear or they were disappeared.”

“Well I could’ve thought that myself” he says harshly than expected.

“A tall powerful guy with an umbrella” John’s eyes widen.

“What about him?” the doctor demands.

“I saw him with them. That’s all I know. Now scram” the boy says already leaving.

“Who painted the walls then?” John shouts.

“Scram” the boy shouts back without turning.

John comes home. Climbs both stairs and lies on his bed till his eyes close with a thousand questions on his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Another day. Another search. Yesterday he crossed Mrs. Hudson off his mental list, feeling somewhat bad about the whole procedure, he didn’t want to upset the old lady. But he had to know for sure and now he does. She was pretty convincing for him.

Today. Lestrade. He won’t go to the Yard, or so many people may get hurt. He waits outside for him, hidden from view. Six hours go by and he stood all of them, like a good soldier he is. Finally he sees him, saying goodbye to rest of them. He intercepts the DI a few blocks away.

“Lestrade! Wait up!” he turns around and sees a pretty badly shaped John.

“John?” Lestrade says very surprised and wants to hug him like a dear old friend but something about John’s posture stops him.

John hasn’t got a speech prepared, and suddenly is out of words.

“Want a drink?” offers Lestrade.

John nods and follows him to a pub nearby. Once they sit on a booth, Lestrade dares to speak again.

“You look pretty bad, pal”

John winces.

“Can we skip this part?” pleads John somewhat pissed already.

“Which part exactly?” wonders Lestrade.

“The part where you seem to care about me.” He explains finding it dull to state the obvious.

“But I do” the DI says firmly.

John doesn’t want to meet his eyes.

“John, I’m glad you decided to move on. It’s been some time now”

“And what gives you that idea?”

“Well you’re out for a starter”

They can continue this chat for how long? It’s boring already. Let’s go straight to the point, shall we?, thinks John.

“Where were you when  _he_  fell?” he finally looks at him in the eye.

“Um… at the Yard. Why?”

“Did you know he was meeting Moriarty?”

“What? No! What are you talking about?”

“What happened that day?”

“Well, you tell me! We were looking for both of you, you were on a run, remember? Next thing I know,  _he_ …  _he_ ’s dead” He sounds desperate and John doesn’t know how to read him.

They stay in silence for a while, just drinking.

“What did you find on the roof?” asks John suddenly.

“Um… Moriarty’s dead body, a gun, and a cell phone”

“Can I have it?”

“What?”

“The cell phone,  _his_  cell phone, can I have it back?”

“It’s evidence” Lestrade explains.

“Still” John appears to be damn serious about it, so he doesn’t push it.

“OK, OK, I’ll fetch it for you”

John is still mad as hell with him, so he doesn’t say thank you, doesn’t pay for his drink, and doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves.

On the way home, he buys a cow brain and take-out for him. He’s absolutely exhausted, still not used to be outside and dealing with people.

//

He wakes to the sound of someone banging at the door. It’s been ages since someone comes to his home.

“Coming! Who is it?” he shouts from the stairs.

“John! It’s Greg.”

John comes down the stairs wearing a striped gown, with his eyes still pretty closed. Lestrade has a folder in hand, and John can guess there’s a cell phone in it. 

The detective takes advantage of his sleepy friend and enters the flat to check the state of it. Something is odd. Well the odd thing would be that nothing is odd at all.

“Everything looks the same. You kept it this way?”

John rudely takes the folder off him.

“Not of your business. This is for me?” he asks showing him the folder and Greg just nods.

“Right, well. That would be all then” he says pointing to the door.

“I’m worried about you”

“Don’t” and with the practice of thousands times before this one, he closes the door on his face.

He makes some tea and moves the experiments on the kitchen table enough to have place for the folder.

He looks at the papers rather quickly, what he really wants is to look at the phone. He takes it out and presses the power button, but nothing happens. Battery is out. Obviously.

He knows where Sherlock’s things are by heart, so he finds the charger in a second and what fears the most shows up on the screen. A password is needed. 4 letters or numbers. 3 attempts.

“Damn it”

He grabs a paper and starts writing all the things that come to his mind. 221B, Yard, Bart, Sher, Lock, MrsH, bore, bees, body, dead, Bach, game, … He fills a whole sheet and curses himself for it.

This is Sherlock’s phone, not some common guy’s, he’ll never know the stupid password.

The last thing he writes at the bottom is ‘John’. He looks at the word and smiles bitterly at it.

“Yeah right, sentiment”

Knowingly that is the last possible password chosen by  _him_ , he tries it first, half as a joke, half as some secret pride. “It’s as bad as any”

He enters his name rather quickly. “Let’s not waste more time than needed”

The phone starts loading the apps, and suddenly he is in. He drops the phone on the table from the surprise.

“Holy shit”

He watches the phone for a while without touching it, absorbing the new turn of events.

“Oh Sherlock” he whispers his name for the first time in three years. The last time he did it, was at his grave asking him for a miracle.


	4. Chapter 4

The stupid phone is useless. Who would have known that Sherlock got so many archives on it?  _His_  experiments’ notes, forensics data, it’s full of it. John spends a great deal of time with the device and manages to look at every file without any luck. He really hoped the consulting detective had left him some kind of message, but  _he_  was always so ahead of everyone,  _he_  knew the Yard would take the phone, so maybe  _he_  didn’t want to risk it. Or maybe,  _he_ just didn’t want John to find out.

He quickly shakes that last thought. It is not a matter of what  _he_  would have wanted to do but what it needed to be done. Period. There are no victims nor perpetrators. There’s guilt but not one to blame, well Moriarty of course, but that can’t be helped now.

There’s a knock on the door.

Being distracted with his thoughts, Johns opens it without asking first. Always a mistake.

“Dr. Watson. You’re looking better already.”

“You’re the first in telling me that. What do you want?” John asks rudely.

This is the last person John wants to see.

“I want to talk to you.” He answers very politely, but John is not buying it.

“It’s been three years, why now?” the doctor demands.

“It has come to my attention that you are walking the city again and …”

 “That’s none of your business.” John cuts him.

“It is, if you’re asking about my dear brother” explains patiently Mycroft.

“You know something, I know you do.” John says very angry pointing at him.

“I know plenty of things, Dr. Watson. I assure you, none of it will bring him back.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, he’s dead, John.”

“I don’t believe you! You were talking with his homeless network!”

“I was merely asking questions, the same as you.”

“But…”

“John, you were very important for my brother, even if he didn’t want to admit it.”   
  


John slightly flinches at that.

“You were, rest assured. That’s why I am here, actually, to see for myself how you are. Also to inform you, that I will stop paying the rent for this flat.”

The last sentence feels like a slap in the face to the doctor. A slap you don’t see coming, and he’s a trained soldier.

“What? Why?”

“I thought I was doing you a favour, but with the rent paid, your pension was enough for food, services and other things, so you isolated from the world. That was the last thing I was expecting from you. Believe me that I’m doing you a real favour now. You need to get back to the world.”

“221B is a part of the world, the only part that matters to me. You can’t do this.”

As nothing has being said, Mycroft continues.

“I will take all my brother’s belongings as well. What you are doing it is not healthy, John.”

John doesn’t know what to say, after taking care of every detail for so long, it feels like a huge part of him is being ripped apart.

“I'll give you a month. I’ll explain everything to Mrs. Hudson, I have new tenants for her as well. So she won’t miss the money.”

“Thorough as usual, Mycroft. Now leave.”

John looks around trying to absorb every detail. He doesn’t want to lose any of it. He has a month to find him and not a clue to start with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I'm writing a few more chapters. It will end soon, I'm sure.
> 
> I check for mistakes in the last chapters, and there's always one more! If you find any don't hesitate in telling me so. I really appreciate that! 
> 
> I just start writing fan fiction. There's a lot to learn!! I love it, but any suggestions you may have for me are also truly welcome.
> 
> Thanks again, <3 <3 :)


	5. Chapter 5

  
He wakes up. He stares at the ceiling. He sighs. His mind is a blank page.

He goes for a run.

He comes back, drinks water and has a bath.

He feels better, he doesn’t like it, but he does. He knows it’s a chemical well-being, but it feels pretty real nonetheless.

His mind is still in blank.

As a proper English man, the doctor prepares tea. Maybe that will help him think. He almost reaches for two cups, and that makes him stop in his tracks. After three years. But this time he doesn’t feel sad, he feels the anticipation. The idea that he’s somewhere alive is enough for him to know that someday they meet again.

He gathers all the information available and starts preparing the wall next to the yellow smiley face. He puts the articles he kept all these years, Sherlock’s notes, documents from the Yard, a picture of the St. Bart’s roof top, the name and faces of the people he thinks are involved. He writes on it, and connects most of the dots.

“Think damn it”, he says as a curse

A sudden orgasm sounds loudly in the room.

He opens his eyes widely, runs for the phone and looks at it.

_I’m in town. Let’s have dinner_

A trillion questions flood his mind.

Is Irene alive? Does she know Sherlock’s death was a fake? Does she know where he is? Does Sherlock know she is alive? Are they together? Having the days of their death lives? Is she helping him? How is this number still working? If this is Irene, is she trying to communicate with Sherlock or John? Why did Sherlock leave his real phone behind? Is this the real phone? Or did he clone it like he did with Irene’s?

Anyhow, he needs to answer it. Thing is, as Sherlock? Or himself? Or well, as nobody in particular?

_Where? SH_

He clicks send with his heart beating out of his chest. Immediately after, an orgasm arrives with the reply.

_You know where_

“Damn it, Watson” he curses to himself.

He could write her again, to ask for more details, but something tells him that she won’t answer.

//

 

When a proper time for dinner arrives, he takes a cab to the secluded place where she took him last time, hoping it is the right time and place. There’s a car waiting for him and he can’t stop feeling greatly relieved.

When he approaches the car, a woman gets outs from the driving the seat and opens the car’s back door for him.

“Hello, Doctor Watson” Irene says looking perfectly calm as usual and beautiful as ever.

“Tell me” he anxiously demands.

“Tell you what?”

“Is he…?”

“Alive? Like me? I’m afraid not.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s why I’m here actually.”

“I don’t understand”

“As you see, I’m pretty much alive. Again. I owe him the last one, and now I’m paying my debt”

John’s face is puzzled.

“He contacted me, before he…fell from that roof, and asked for a favour. He said if I did it, we’ll be even. I’ve been doing it since.”

“What did he ask you?”

“To take care of you.”

“What?”

“Repetition is boring, Doctor. Didn’t he teach you that?”

“I don’t need to be taken care of” he firmly states.

“He begged to differ”

“So what? You’ve been spying on me?”

“You know? He said  _‘I need to do this, it’s the only way’_ , it’s a weird thing to say when you’re about to kill yourself, don’t you think?”

“Why didn’t you say something to him? Talked him out of it?”

“I didn’t know what he was about to do. He told me he was in danger, and only if things turned out badly I should stick to my promise. Why didn’t  _you_  talk him out of it?”

“I… I… I tried but…”

“As I was saying, he did it to protect you”

“How on earth you came to that conclusion?” John exasperatingly asks her.

“Moriarty threaten him. He had snipers on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you. Either he jumped or all his loved ones would die”

John tries to sink this new information in.

“How do you know this? Why are you telling me this now?”

“I have my sources and I’m telling you this now because you have to stop looking for him.”

John looks away.

“This is the last thing I’m doing for you. I’m leaving the country so I won’t be able to look after you any longer. Anyway I see that you don’t need it anymore, you seem better now. Get a woman or a man. Get married. Have kids. Practice your profession, Doctor. Live your life”

“You don’t get it” he says looking through the window.

“No, you don’t get it. He’s dead, John. He died for you. For you, to have a good life and not this pathetic intent of a living that you care so much to pursue.”

The car arrives at 221B Baker Street.

“I’m sorry for leaving you like this, next time we’ll have a proper dinner”

John doesn’t look at her and gets out of the car.

He enters the flat, and the smell of the rotten fingers penetrates the skin.

He goes to the kitchen, grabs the dish with the fingers in it and throws it against the wall with all his strength. He starts breathing hard, hyperventilating.

“Where are you? Please give me a clue. I can’t do this any longer. I feel I’m getting mad”

He’s had enough; he grabs the bottle and sits on the couch. After several sips, he feels Sherlock’s phone inside his pocket. He takes it out and playing with it ends up looking at the call log. He never thought to look at the last numbers  _he_ dialled. John appears first, then The Woman and finally Molly Hooper. The rest belong to the days before.

He dials Molly’s number and waits.

“Sherlock? Oh my God! Are you all right? You said you’ll never call unless something happened. Is this safe? Can we talk? Sherlock? Sherlock? Are you there? I can listen you breathe. Sherlock?”

John hangs up and drifts to sleep with a smile on his face. Finally an answer.


End file.
